


An Incident In Arcadia

by CharbroilLaFlamme



Series: Bioshock: Measurement of A Father [8]
Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, BioShock References, BioShock Spoilers, Gen, Mild to strong language, Near Death Experiences, Rapture (BioShock), Strangulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:29:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15590106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CharbroilLaFlamme/pseuds/CharbroilLaFlamme
Summary: Sinclair is granted one last day out with the wardens and is allowed to see the sights again. It does not turn out well.





	An Incident In Arcadia

**Author's Note:**

> * I had a hard time trying to make this part feel right, it’s about as good as I can get it right now! Enjoy!

There was a whole crowd in Arcadia that day, Sinclair could feel everyone looking at him. He refused to look at anyone, for the first time embarrassed out in public.

People whispered and gossiped.  _Sinclair this_ and _Sinclair that_.

News and rumour thrived in the milling masses. He heard it all. And... it _hurt_.

It hurt him to see these people, calling him a traitor. Calling him a parasite.

No more a man than he was an experiment. A prisoner.

But it was still nice to finally able to be in what passed for outside.

“Pack it up, you’re going out for a walk.” He was one of the more prickly members of the Persephone guard.

“What?” Sinclair halfway perked up and sat up to look out at the man.

“You heard me, Alexander’s letting you out today—for a while.” The guard—one that either hated or loved his job, hard to tell—smiled condescendingly. “Of course, in your condition, you’re not going alone.”

“O’ course,” Sinclair said, “I expected as much.”

Sinclair didn’t really think he’d be granted a day out.

Yet he knew _exactly_ why this was happening—at the end of his walk, it’d mark his last day as Sinclair. Like a procession. But he was ready.

“Yessir.” Sinclair had said, standing up.

They were rough, forcing him to change into more presentable clothes, a pair of brown slacks and a casual button-up sufficed well.

They utilised a pair of cuffs—ones equipped with a longer chain for comfort.

Sinclair could argue he was already helpless, given that he’d be surrounded at all times by guards—prepared to jump him the second he made a move, aggressive or otherwise.

So he was out and about now, and he could feel everyone watching him. Studying him.

It was indescribable, the sensation of complete infamy, reviled and abhorred by Ryan’s most loyal of subjects. He had once strived for a form of infamy—ruthless, rugged businessman.

Instead, people were confronting him about the scandal, yelling, screaming, calling him absolutely _vile_ names.

His face must have been everywhere—every paper plastered with his mug in unflattering black-n’-white.

He swallowed his pride and continued forward. Nobody could touch him. But still he found his walls being weakened by each disparaging remark.

This should have just been a quiet, relaxing walk through the Tea Gardens. It was anything but.

He managed to pass the majority of the crowd, then he breathed easy.

The area had grown blessedly quiet, they were deeper into the forest, under canopies of blossoming trees, the fragrance of flowers. Little pink petals flittering past his view.

It was breathtaking. The air felt fresh, clean, tasted sweet, better than the air below in Persephone’s bowels.

He took in another long breath of air.

Sinclair looked at the grassy ground, avoiding treading upon the sprouting flowers below him.

He had not seen Arcadia in so long. It looked just as he remembered. Clean.

“Isn’t it great, Epsilon?” It was one if the guards that Sinclair actually kind of appreciated. He wasn’t quite the usual type he met on the daily.

But that isn’t to say he wasn’t a complete hard-ass when required, he was still the type to stick to protocol.

Sinclair nodded, taking in another great big breath of air. “It is, I never came here enough, you know?” He said, attempting to make small talk.

“Thinking of bringing my kids here sometime.”

“I’m sure they’d love it.” Sinclair said, making himself smile.

 

* * *

 

It was a little longer into the walk—at least twenty or so minutes—when they had reached the latter half of Arcadia. They had neared a sect beside the Farmer’s Market.

It was normally more crowded, but not this time.

Sinclair looked up to take in the deco arch that would open up to the entrance leading on to the Market.

But he had been slightly sidetracked by movement from the corner of his eye and turned his attention over to it.

He was thin—hell, borderline _gangly_ —and dressed casually in a pair of corduroy slacks and an off-white shirt, a pencil tucked behind one of his particularly pronounced ears. He appeared to be chatting with someone, leaning against the stonework, arms crossed.

He could only see a part of their face until they turned around and saw Sinclair, too.

Their eyes met, and something _vile_ began to simmer up in Sinclair. He knew all too well that it never stayed a simmer.

He saw the newsman mouth a profanity—then said newsman flashed a fake and confident smile at Sinclair. “I see you’re... out and about, huh?”

The forest’s air became _foul_.

Sinclair affixed him with a scowl—one of pure ire.

The guards eclipsed Sinclair a little. It was a healthy dose of caution. There was a brief exchange between Sinclair’s chaperones and the newsman.

And Sinclair caught them referring to him as a _dangerous prisoner_.

The discussion was somewhat heated, up until Stanley put his hands up relaxedly with a grin and closed eyes—a gesture of utmost disregard. “Look, he’s all yours, boys, I’m not gonna stick around with that _crook_.” He shrugged. “But you better watch what you say—a few little words and he’ll up and break your nose.” He smiled insidiously, then attempted a step back to leave the scene before something happened.

Sinclair reached out and grabbed the collar of Stanley’s shirt in his fists while he was still within arm’s length.

“Epsilon, you have to the count of _three_ —“ a guard warned.

Stanley allowed himself a quick moment of surprise, but huffily tugged his shirt from out of Sinclair’s hands. “ _Hands to yourself._ ” He upturned his chin—with an aura that befitted a man far _better_ than _Stanley_.

Stanley really _had_ let this small victory go to his head.

Sinclair leaned forward again, his self-restraint was running thin. It was less of a second attempt to grab him and more like threatening gesture.

Stanley jumped backward in response.

Sinclair inspected him briefly—his whole silhouette was shivering. The little rat, he was actually _afraid_.

Sinclair produced a dry, blasé laugh once he had figured Stanley out. “You know, truth be told, Stanley, you’re not even worth it,” He stepped back—appearing to concede defeat, “you’re just one big waste o’ my time.”

Two of the guards seemed to breathe relievedly as Sinclair had not chosen to advance again. But they still made sure to carefully put themselves in front of him, walling him off. The third one stayed behind.

“Well it isn’t like you got much time left anyway. So go ahead.” Stanley retorted smugly, sneering. “ _Waste away._ ”

Sinclair really had no idea why he had thought it a good idea.

But he surged forward, squeezing in between the broad shoulders of his wardens—and wrapped his hands around the reporter’s exposed throat, throttling him up toward the stonework wall.

The one guard that tried to grab him was pulled ahead with him when he had grabbed the back of his shirt.

The only thing in Sinclair’s world in that moment was the man he could hear choking, heaving futile breaths that never once reached his lungs.

Stanley’s fingers curled helplessly around his forearms, nails included.

Sinclair had grown all but oblivious to the rest of his surroundings.

But he was aware of loud, vague voices outside of this narrow world, yelling at him to release Stanley—who was fighting, feebly, but still. The tugging at his arms was evident, as well.

It was like a dog with his teeth around another animal’s neck. He was refusing to release him, waiting for his prey to go limp. And each attempt to pry him away was met with increased pressure.

It was all so oddly... cathartical.

He forced Stanley down onto his knees, battering the back of his head against the lower half of the wall as an extra precaution.

Sinclair grit his teeth. Stanley just would not _let go_ , and Sinclair was fully capable of pressing his thumbs hard enough down to completely _crush_ Stanley’s airway to hell. Just to make the struggling _stop_.

_It’d be easy, just a little extra force. Then dues would be paid._

If Stanley wanted him so badly to be the bad guy—then _fine_.

He would have no problem killing him.

And he would have, but two of the guards had finally managed to shake him out of it his homicidal trance.

He was forced away from Stanley and dragged about three clumsy steps back. He began working on catching his own breath. The third guard went ahead to check on Stanley.

Sinclair allowed himself this one, post-murder-attempt moment to gather his bearings.

His self control had been corroded by his isolation—he was violently maladjusted, unfit for being out in the public. Trained on survival.

He knew that if they weren’t there, he would have murdered Stanley without a semblance of hesitation. And it would not have been a pretty sight to see.

Sinclair would have felt _nothing_ , however. He instead gazed hazily at the man crumpled on the ground. He felt only disappointment at his unfinished business.

Stanley sat back against the rough surface, coughing violently, hand crushed against his neck. He shooed away the guard coming to check him out as he felt around his throat, making sure everything was intact.

Then he got up—Sinclair watching his every movement in distaste—and turned to double over at the base of the wall. His attempts at breathing were an unhealthy-sounding _wheeze_.

“ _Goddamnit_ ,” Stanley muttered hoarsely after some time, readapting his windpipe—remembering how to breathe and speak. He turned back around to meet Sinclair’s eyes, “Jesus christ, you—“

“ _Shut up._ ” Sinclair’s voice came out sharp—hitting like a bolt into Stanley’s chest. Stanley proceeded to swallow his words. “You have _no_ room to talk.”

The guards advanced to pull him back again as he moved forward, and he dug his boot-heel into the dirt to stop the guards from pulling him back too far.

“C’mon,” Stanley backed up to the wall he was previously leaning against, “I didn’t do _anything_ to you.” He said, swallowing loudly, showing off the most believable look of terror he could muster—easy enough, given that he was genuinely _afraid_.

“You’re a _liar_ , Stanley!” Sinclair snapped, disgust seeping richly from his tone. He made yet another move toward him.

“Get that crazy sonofabitch away from me!” Stanley demanded desperately, pointing at Sinclair. “He tried to _kill_ me, did you _seriously_ miss that? _Chrissakes...!_ ”

The guards didn’t really seem too concerned, however. Looking on with some form of intrigue whilst at the same time pulling back on Sinclair’s shoulders.

“ _An’ I have no qualms about trying it again, you son of a bitch!_ ” Sinclair’s temper erupted, like a fissure—hazed by a wave of fury-driven tears.

Then he looked on him in revulsion, adopting a lower volume. “Get over yourself, Poole.” He said between his teeth. “All you’re good for in Rapture is taking up precious space. Do us _all_  a favour,” Sinclair snarled, “lay down an’ _stop breathing_.”

Admittedly, it was a hard pill to swallow for Stanley—Sinclair had basically just told him to _go die_.

Stanley stared him down in a heavy silence, he wanted to respond, truly. But words refused to form in his mouth.

“What were you hoping to gain?” Sinclair continued from Stanley’s absence of responses. “What did you want? Attention? Admiration? Fame?” He scoffed and left room for the latter to answer. “Well?”

Sinclair had a cryptic look on him—a mix of anger and pity, and something else Stanley could not seem to determine for the life of him.

Stanley opened his mouth to speak, but it was for naught. Thus, he shut his mouth again as his would-be reply had gotten caught on his tongue.

“That’s what I thought, Poole. _Who’s the parasite now, motherfucker?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes!:
> 
> — Stanley was the one who had seeded the rumours post-news story, which is why Sinclair’s presence in Arcadia had stirred up so much attention.
> 
> — Sinclair was indeed ready to kill Stanley, but it had been a combination of realisation and guard intervention that stopped him.
> 
> — It is at this point that Sinclair had finally poured out his feelings toward Stanley, he feels betrayed, hurt, dehumanised, and completely and utterly wants Stanley to understand this. But at the same time, he really doesn’t want him alive. He only expressed the latter half out of spite.


End file.
